


String Theory

by Lady_Aki



Series: Rosal'in & Solas EN [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst, Art, Art Teacher, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Lovey-Dovey, M/M, Magic has been lost, Minor Female Lavellan/Zevran Arainai, Modern Thedas, Older Man/Younger Woman, Painting, Professor!Solas, Romance, Smut, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Aki/pseuds/Lady_Aki
Summary: Legend has it that Fen'Harel, having awoken from his millennial sleep to break the chains of his people, fell in love with the inquisitor. In order for their people to survive and prosper, they were both forced to sacrifice themselves. Before they died, they had promised each other that they would meet again in another life to live out their forbidden love :Val Royeaux, 19:43 Light. Rosal'in Lavellan is a young doctoral student in History with a passion for art. After a painful break-up that led her to Antiva, she decided to return to the capital of Orlais and start painting. Following her friends' advice, she applied for private lessons given by her favourite painter, the famous contemporary artist Solas Wolfe. An ambiguous relationship between teacher and disciple begins to develop under the critical gaze of modern orlesian society and their respective entourages.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Series: Rosal'in & Solas EN [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1722640
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [La théorie des cordes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22656361) by [Lady_Aki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Aki/pseuds/Lady_Aki). 



A long sigh escaped Rosal'in's lips as she shut down her laptop. She had now been browsing for several hours through various books on the evolution of Elvish philosophical thought through the ages and its influence on the evolution of societies around the world. She was fascinated by this subject, which was intrinsically linked to her field of research as well as to her own origins, but she was no longer able to concentrate. When she realized that she had just reread the same paragraph for the fifth time in a row, she decided to end her daily study session.   
  
A brief glance made her realize that the library was gradually being emptied. There were only a few people left, some of whom were familiar to her. This specialized library was practically only used by the university staff. There were few visitors from outside the community. Sometimes you would come across clergymen looking for forgotten theological works, or young first-year students who were totally confused by the hundreds of shelves lined up in front of them. This thought made the young woman smile. She remembered her first visit perfectly. She was in her second year and had been forced by her medieval history teacher to come here to work on a very unusual subject of study, to say the least. Few people seemed to be interested in the curious expansion of the Andrastian cult in Orzammar during the Dragon Age.   
  
Her phone vibrated, suddenly pulling her out of her thoughts. A smile appeared on her face as she saw who the sender was. Dorian was back in town and wanted to see her immediately. If she didn't come to him, he would come to her. At least that's what the message implied. He would meet her at the café "L'Artiste", just a few blocks away.   
  
Without a moment's hesitation, she got up, put her things in her bag and quickly left the study room after giving the librarians the books she had borrowed a few hours earlier. As she walked through the large portico of the prestigious Orleans library, her telephone vibrated again. Her friend's impatience made her laugh. She briefly confirmed her arrival before rushing into the crowded, black streets of the metropolis.   
  


* * *

  
A few rare puddles testified to the bad weather the city had been subjected to in the morning. Summer was coming to an end, leaving the capital of Orlaïs to take on its autumn colours. Rosal'in loved this season for its colours and scents. The smell of rain in the early morning made her nostalgic, reminding her of her childhood spent in the family home, lost in the fields and meadows of the Free Marches. During this period, nature revealed a myriad of hues to which no one could remain indifferent. Mixed with the classical architecture of Val Royeaux, this kaleidoscope of warm shades gave the impression of living one of those soppy antivan stories that only the latter held the secret.   
  
A familiar voice interrupted her mental peregrinations and caught her attention. A man in his thirties with a tanned complexion and long black hair, elegantly dressed, was sitting on the terrace of a chic café waving at her. Rosal'in couldn't help but smile like a child when she met her best friend's eyes. The few yards between them were quickly wiped out by their shared eagerness.  
  
“Rosa! It's so good to see your face!” Dorian exclaimed as he stood up to hug her.   
  
No sooner had she opened her mouth to answer him than she was in his arms, her face buried in the hollow of his neck. She closed her eyes for a few moments, taking advantage of the warmth of her embrace and the comforting scent of chamomile that emanated from his hair. When she opened her eyes, they instinctively landed on the person to the right of her friend, a massive blue-eyed qunari whose casual style swore with his partner’s. A second smile then lit up her face.   
  
“Bull!”   
  
Rosal'in broke free from Dorian's grasp to greet his companion.  
  
“Dorian, you could have warned me!” She gave him a gentle, friendly pat on the back, accustomed to the unexpected.   
  
“Would you have made yourself beautiful for me, Rosal'in?” Asked Bull, a teasing smile painted on his face.   
  
“I don't stand a chance against Dorian.” She replied as she took her seat on the terrace.   
  
The three friends laughed in unison and then began to exchange a few banalities before a waiter interrupted them to ask them what they wanted to drink. As they waited for their order, which consisted of a homemade Fereldian beer, a glass of Tevinter wine and a matcha latte, the young woman's attention was quickly drawn to the sparkling ring Dorian was wearing on his left ring finger.   
  
“...Dorian, is that...?” She pointed with her index finger at her friend's left hand, with an expression of disbelief.   
  
The two men exchanged a knowing smile before deigning to answer their friend's questions.  
  
“An engagement ring? Yes, dear.” The natural boldness of the tevinter had given way to a more reserved, less assertive expression. Serious relationships had always been his pet peeve. Until then, he had always been careful to avoid them, so as not to become attached to his conquests. It was a way of protecting himself from the slightest suffering, betrayal and rejection, paradoxically caused by the distraught love of a father.   
  
Hissrad, more commonly known as Iron Bull because he preferred to be called by this singular nickname rather than by his birth name, was the first to cross the barricades that Dorian had erected between his heart and the rest of the world. Yet they were diametrically opposed. Where the prodigal son of the emeritus house of Pavus was of a distinction and elegance to make sovereigns pale, the orphan of Qun was abrupt. His outspokenness had been the master key to his policy of rapprochement.   
  
It had initially enabled him to win Dorian's sympathy and to make a friend out of a colleague. They had met at a scientific conference on one of the objects of study of the heir Pavus, the physics of the Fade. Both were working in the field of physics, but while Dorian devoted his research to the decline of magic, Iron Bull tended to neglect his own research in favour of teaching, as the appeal of the professorship outweighed that of research.   
  
A sincere infatuation made Rosal'in's heart race with enthusiasm. She knew they were intimate, and madly in love, but she didn't expect them to jump the gun so quickly.   
  
“How long have you been engaged?” she exclaimed cheerfully as she grasped the steaming cup of tea she had just been served.   
  
“Ever since he got off the plane. Sort of.” The qunari replied by giving a teasing look at a slightly blushing, grumpy Dorian.   
  
“Maker, it's still far too recent for me to think about it without my teeth grinding... What an embarrassment!” Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose as he tried to regain his composure. “This idiot had the wonderful idea of proposing to me in front of hundreds of strangers!”   
“And you said yes.” Rosal’in replied immediately, with a big smile on her face.   
  
“Of course not!” He was offended, holding a glass of wine in his hand. “What do you take me for? I'm not a tourist attraction!”   
  
“I had to wait until we got home for him to deign to give me his answer. The gentleman likes to be wanted.” With arms folded, Iron Bull watched Dorian with a tender gaze. No words could have described the way the qunari looked at his lover, a look of infinite tenderness, a love that transcended every obstacle, every convention.   
  
Silently, and with a hint of bitterness, Rosal'in admired the couple. Since her separation from Fenarel, she had not been seriously involved with any other man. He had been the first. The first to kiss her, the first to make her laugh, the first with whom she had danced in the rain one November night when they came home drunk from one of their first dates. His memory was still far too vivid and painful. He haunted every dark corner of her unconscious mind, ready to resurface at any inopportune moment of the day or night. Their story had lasted five years. Five years during which they had shared together everything one could imagine living in a loving relationship, everything one could imagine sharing with one's soul mate.   
  
It was by mutual agreement that their romance had come to an end. Fenarel wanted to return to his native village to take over his father's business and start a family. For Rosal'in, following him would have meant the end of her dreams, a sudden and brutal awakening that would have signed the slow and painful agony of her soul, of everything that made her what she was. She had thus preferred another form of torture, brief but vehement, heartbreaking. The kind of pain before which our faith shakes and our knees bend, that of separation.   
  
Once again, Dorian's voice anchored her to reality.   
  
“Enough about us, how are you doing? Your thesis defense is in a few months, if I'm not mistaken. I should call you doctor soon...” A clear laugh comes over his lips.

The heaviness that had taken its place in the young woman's chest, slowly compressing her heart like a vice, suddenly gave way to the contagious gaiety of her best friend.   
  
“I'm terrified, I don't feel ready yet.” She sighed and took the last sip of her tea. “I've come to dream of my thesis director...”   
  
“Beyond the professional, I hope...” Iron Bull's laughter lightened the dramatic tone of the conversation and was soon joined by Dorian's laughter, which in its turn ended his glass of wine.   
  
Rosal'in blushed slightly at these lewd implications, but didn’t hold it against her. She was now familiar with the qunari's naughty humour, and she must have confessed that she enjoyed it very regularly. He had an uncommon gift for relaxing the atmosphere.   
  
“Maker, he isn’t my kind of man at all... Despite the allure of the age difference and the profession...” Her lips stretched in a cheeky smile as she put her chin on the palm of her hand. From the corner of her eye, Rosal'in meticulously detailed everything in her field of vision. An imposing poster announcing the new exhibition of one of her favourite artists piqued her curiosity. Until now she had been to all his exhibitions, without exception. She appreciated his innovative brushstroke, inspired both by the elven paintings and engravings of the early ages, but also by modern art. His eclecticism produced avant-garde works which, despite the recurrence of archaic themes, were in keeping with contemporary trends and addressed the societal issues of their time. He parsimoniously mixed history and art, making the two fields of predilection of the young university woman his signature.   
  
“It would do you a lot of good to be with a man, though... How long have you been moping over your separation? It's time to move on, Rosal'in.” Dorian's tone was both gentle and firm. He had witnessed the moral and physical decay that had come from her separation from Fenarel. In those dark days, he had been the anchor that had kept her grounded in reality. Now he wanted to see her blossom, to heal the wound that her first love had left in its wake.  
  
For a few moments, Rosal'in was forced into silence. This wasn’t the first time her friend had broached this subject and urged her to question her vow of celibacy. To tell the truth, this vow wasn’t really a choice, it was a constraint she had imposed on herself to protect herself from psychological suffering. She sighed as the couple waited for an answer.   
  
“I don't know where to start... My research doesn't often allow me to meet new people.” Nervously, she began to play with one of her hair curls. “I'm rather limited to the same circles...”  
  
The gaze of the tevinter made a quick trip back and forth between Rosal'in and the poster of her favourite painter.   
  
“You should take a painting class. Even though I couldn't reply to your messages during my trip, I saw the pictures you sent me. Your latest paintings are beautiful. With a teacher, I give you just a few years before the galleries fight over your work.” He winked at the young woman with a cheeky wink.   
  
“You exaggerate, Dorian...” An embarrassed smile came over her face. “Besides, I don't paint for fame.”  
  
“But everyone's looking for recognition.”  
  
Following Iron Bull's intervention, the elven woman made a slightly upset pout.   
  
“He's right. And no one is exempt from the rule. Besides..." Dorian nodded his head to the poster that caught the historian's attention. “In Josie's words, your idol teaches private lessons.”  
  
“Only upon presentation of a candidature file...” Did she correct him while crossing her arms. “Josie told me about it immediately when she found out I was a fan...” Unconsciously, she began again to twist one of her blonde curls around her index finger, irrefutable proof of her embarrassment. “But let's face it, I'm not fit to be one of his stude-“   
  
“That's for you to judge. Show him your work.” Iron Bull, who until then had been content to listen silently to the conversation, interrupted the young artist without warning. As a professor, he was a privileged witness to the student's propensity to devalue personal work. Although she was about to obtain her doctorate, Rosal'in wasn’t immune to the scourge that was ravaging the university benches, and more broadly society as a whole.   
  
As she was about to retort that she didn't have enough time to devote to painting lessons anyway, just a few months before her thesis defence, a small voice planted the seeds of doubt in her. What if her case was accepted?   
  


* * *

  
When Rosal'in crossed the threshold of the front door of her apartment located not far from the university district, her watch indicated that it was past 8 pm. She had left Dorian and Iron Bull about twenty minutes earlier, after having enjoyed in their company a copious dinner in a restaurant that her social status would probably never have allowed her if she hadn’t been friends with the heir of the House of Pavus. He took advantage of his lineage to open the doors of the most selective places in the capital of Orlaïs to them.   
  
She negligently put her bag on the coffee table in the middle of her small living room while she took off her long checkered coat and brown suede boots. Her aching feet freed, she sighed with contentment. It had been a trying day. Writing her conclusion was taking longer than expected, upsetting the schedule she had set two years earlier. Writing a thesis was hard work that required iron discipline. Consulting the archives, sorting and categorizing the different types of sources made available, correlating them in order to draw conclusions that would be used to develop her argument.  
  
All this upstream work required, firstly, a strict lifestyle and, secondly, a social life that was almost non-existent. Apart from her closest friends, she had been isolated for several months now and no longer had any contact with a living soul. Every minute was entirely devoted to the preparation of her defense. As Dorian had pointed out so well, she was now in the home stretch. She had been preparing for this final stage for seven years. Seven years of hard work and sacrifice.   
  
Immediately cutting short the laments that were about to darken her mind, the young woman took a decisive step towards the bathroom, preferring a relaxing shower. She stayed there for an hour, enjoying the therapeutic benefits of the hot water on the muscular contracture that her poor stress management had caused her. An abrupt gesture brought a brief groan of pain as she carefully dried her hair.   
  
When she looked up at the mirror, a weary look on her face greeted her back. She detailed her reflection for a few minutes in amazement. Her face was dull and drab, hollowed out by fatigue. Her large emerald eyes, usually filled with eager curiosity, seemed apathetic, drained of vitality. Her long curly blonde hair was carelessly combed behind her ears, accentuating the weariness of her gloomy expression. To all this was combined a skin of immaculate whiteness, like porcelain. Like a tormented heroine of classical tragedy, her fragility gave her an indecent charm. Her sickly beauty was immoral, like the themes she liked to address in her works.  
Upset about what she saw, Rosal'in immediately looked away from the body she had become accustomed to neglecting. Her physical condition screamed at her to give herself time, to take care of herself.  
  
She grabbed the oversized t-shirt that served as her nightgown and put it on, then braided her hair as she used to do for sleeping. To her dismay, she had fallen asleep before without bothering to tie it up. Only once. She must have spent more than an hour untangling and separating her curls. Getting them back into a pretty shape was a different story.   
  
As she walked to the kitchen to get a cup of tea, her easel caught her attention. She hadn’t yet put away the canvas and brushes she had used a few days earlier. The words of Iron Bull came back to her mind. Thinking, she leaned against the frame of the corridor door leading to her living room. After all, she had nothing to lose, except a little self-confidence. Rosal'in nervously nibbled at her lower lip. Wiping away a failure always made her question herself.   
  
Hesitantly, she moved closer to her last painting. The remains of an ancient elven temple from the Arlathan era facing a young elf from the present era. A statue of Mythal watches over the entrance to the sanctuary. The atmosphere is supernatural, magical. A luxuriant forest surrounds the temple, crossed by a river. Although from behind, one can guess the incredulous and amazed expression of the protagonist. The Mother tenderly observes her child as the latter sets her innocent eyes on her for the first time.   
  
“All right, let's get started.”   
  


* * *

  
It had taken several hours to put together the application file. Rosal'in had spent the evening working on it and didn’t go to bed until around one o'clock in the morning, fearing the answer she would theoretically receive in the morning. What took her the most time was writing her presentation. She hesitated for a long time between following university protocol or being less formal and more friendly. She had finally opted for an in-between. However, she didn’t know what to say about herself, except who she was and what motivated her to apply. She had preferred not to disclose her status as a doctoral student, fearing that if she was accepted, she would feel obliged to act accordingly, that she would have to meet the criteria required by her status.   
  
So it was only natural that she didn't pay much attention when her alarm clock rang, let alone when her phone emitted a vibration, informing her that she had just received an email.   
When the young woman emerged from her dreams, the sun was at its zenith. She rose suddenly, realizing what time it was supposed to be. She frantically searched for her phone before she realized she had left it on her desk to charge it. Once she got up, her first reaction was to check her emails. Her heart missed an initial beat when she unlocked her screen and realized that she had indeed received an answer in the morning. It missed a second beat when she read the contents of the email.   
  


* * *

  
From: Solas Wolfe   
To: Rosal'in Lavellan   
Subject: RE:Application File   
  
Dear Rosal'in,   
I look forward to seeing you on Wednesday at 4:00 p.m. at 29 Halamshiral Street.  
  
Solas Wolfe  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The studio in which the painting classes were held was located in the heart of the posh Val Royeaux neighbourhood. The townhouses that characterized it dated from the end of the industrial era. A time when innovation was on everyone's lips and governed the life of ordinary people. Industrialization, that mechanical god, had turned the face of the old world upside down, dealing an almost fatal blow to religious beliefs, whether they stemmed from the Chantry or from the cults that the latter designated as pagan. The rites of the ancients were henceforth only practiced by a few rare families whose notable origins explained the persistence of these liturgical practices.   
  
Rosal'in Lavellan came from one of those old families of Dalish origin, which is said to date back to the time when the lands of Dales had been offered to the elves by the children of the divine Andraste. Even today, traditions were inherent to dalish education and were a part of the life of every member of the community. Fortunately, the wearing of vallaslin hadn’t been compulsory for several centuries. They had been considered too constraining in adapting to life in society. Nowadays, the most daring dalish had a substitute tattooed on a discreet part of the body, so as not to hinder their personal development. Some perceived this act as a symbol of resistance and affirmation in the face of shemlen supremacy.   
  
The young woman was in that bold category. She proudly carried on her chest the vallaslin of Mythal, the Mother and Protector of the People. The sacred arabesques followed the natural curve of her clavicles in a poetic staging that enhanced the pallor of her complexion and the sensuality of her cleavage. Nevertheless, there was no evidence of any chauvinism there. While Rosal'in didn’t deny that there was a part of pride in this act, that of her origins and her people, this love for their history had never been intended to demean others. As an historian, she was aware of the leading role of each civilization in history. Even more than her professional conscience, it was her love of knowledge that led her to look with deference at all the civilizations Thedas had brought into it bosom.   
  
The university exchange she had participated two years ago had brought her to Antiva. She was then in her second year of her master's degree and had just separated from Fenarel. If this trip had initially been a pretext for her to flee, to flee an environment still imbued with the presence of her ex-fiancé and their respective promises, it had then proved essential in the personal reconstruction that Rosal'in had begun. It was one of her closest friends, Josephine Montilyet, a foreign relations student straight out of a noble Antiva family, who had pushed her to leave her large, gloomy apartment behind in favour of the delights of the Antiva capital.  
  
Antiva was, like Val Royeaux, an architectural gem. With its elegant eccentricity, it never ceased to surprise and amaze travelers from all walks of life as its luxurious extravagance knew no bounds.   
  
It was in one of its elegant bars that she had met Zevran Arainai, an attractive elf in his thirties, in whose arms she had tried to forget her grief and fill the emotional void left by the departure of her companion. They had been dating for just over two months before Rosal'in realized her mistake. Despite all the affection she had for him, he was just a band-aid on a wooden leg. They were only a consolation prize to each other, however pleasant it may be. They had parted on good terms and had decided to stay in touch despite an unorthodox friendly relationship. The rest of Rosal'in's stay had been as wonderful as it could have been. She had used her vacation as an opportunity for adventure, exploring every corner of the kingdom in search of its hidden secrets.   
  
This journey had made her fully aware of her desires and what she wished to accomplish. Within a week of her return, she started looking for a new apartment and began painting, an artistic field she had admired since childhood but had never dared to enter. Antiva had taught her maturity and independence, just as Zevran had taught her to be more self-confident.   
  
A throbbing pain in her right thigh interrupted Rosal'in in her wanderings as she climbed the steps leading up to the house indicated on the address. On reflection, resuming a sporting activity the day before her first painting class might not have been the wisest idea. But her body and mind still needed it. The image that her mirror had sent back to her less than a week ago had made her question her behaviour. It wasn’t only about her appearance, but also about her health, both physical and mental. Her thesis couldn’t excuse this negligence.   
  
Arriving at the top of the stairs, the young woman began to stare at the intercom, as forbidden. She was so apprehensive about this meeting that she was now unable to feel anything except the mad frenzy that had taken hold of her heart and which resounded within her like a drum on a battlefield. She closed her eyelids for a few moments and took a deep breath to calm her ardor. In spite of his distinguished reputation, Solas Wolfe was only a man subject to the same imperatives as the common man.   
  
As she repeated this mantra to herself, she pressed the doorbell with a hesitant hand. The latter resounded, soon followed by footsteps. It was now impossible to turn back. The door soon opened, revealing in its doorway a bald man in his forties with pronounced and prominent facial features, whose elongated ears left no doubt as to his origins.   
  
“I presume you must be Rosal'in.” A kind smile appeared on the painter's lips. “Solas Wolfe. Pleased to meet you, Miss Lavellan.”   
  
Rosal'in considered him for a brief moment without saying a word, in awe. To tell the truth, she didn't expect him to be so... _charismatic._ Although the articles dedicated to him were sometimes accompanied by a few snapshots of him, most of them were taken on the sly. Solas had on several occasions shown a marked lack of interest in the enhancement of his person in the artistic framework. What he wanted to express and share was in his paintings and not on his face, which would surely be embellished and rejuvenated. Unlike many of his colleagues who used their fame to promote themselves within the Orlesian ruling class, he had no opportunistic pretensions to his profession. The love of art seemed to be his only leitmotif.   
  
A slight laugh suddenly brought her out of the state of daze that had just taken over her cognitive faculties.   
  
“The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Wolfe.” She hastened to reply, blushing with embarrassment despite her radiant expression. 

Maker, her attempt to make a good impression was over. From the amused look in her eyes, he must have already seen her as a young, scatterbrained amateur.   
  
“Call me Solas.” He stepped away from the doorway and invited her in with an elegant wave of his hand. “Please come in. We've been waiting for you.”   
  
Rosal'in's attention was immediately struck by the modern decoration of the place as she walked through the doorway. All that remained of authenticity was the old orlesian parquet floor that creaked under the inquisitive footsteps of the guests.   
  
“This way.”   
  
Silently, she followed him through the corridors leading to the workshop, memorizing the path she would have to take again many times in the months to come. As she had foreseen, the rest of the house had been the victim of the same experienced decorator, probably fond of grotesque sculptures, which the historian had found it difficult to describe as artistic creations because she could not grasp their meaning. If they had one at all. The only thing she knew for sure about them was that we were fighting for them at auction at prices that defied all decency. How could these things compete with a masterpiece?   
  
Rosal'in rolled her eyes, full of bitterness. Let there be no misunderstanding as to how the historian's resentment should be interpreted. Her disgust for these so-called experiments wasn’t a form of disguised pedantry coming from a conservative artist, refusing any innovation, because blinded by a fantasized past and distorted by the interpretation of a few nostalgic people. On the contrary, she appreciated and sought novelty. The history of art was a series of experimentation, innovation, and transgressions of rules established by mortals claiming to be able to muzzle the domain of the muses. But behind every artistic manifestation was hidden a meaning, a message for every sensitive being. This is what differentiated the work from a simple everyday object. Its purpose.   
  
It was free of all her negative apprehensions that the young woman entered the workshop. She was here to improve and discover herself. To discover what form the physical manifestation of her senses took.   
  
The only free easel was located next to a large bay window allowing the torch of the world to grace the impersonal white walls of the studio with its light. Rosal'in took her place there without further ado, taking off her scarf and coat in the process. Five other files had caught the painter's attention. Two women and three men. This parity brought a small amused smile to her face. Was it a mere coincidence or a deliberate choice? Either way, she would find out soon enough.   
  
Solas had taken his place in the centre of the room, chin up and head high, his right hand firmly holding the other behind his back.   
  
“Well, now that we're all together, it's time to begin.” He paused, taking turns watching his students. “If you are here today, it’s because you have been able to discern yourself through your artistic approach. At least to me.” A slight smile appeared on his lips. “I wouldn't teach you how to paint. You already know how to do it.” Slowly, he began to wander across the room. “My role will be more that of a guide than a teacher. I will show you how to use your qualities, as well as your flaws.” He stopped beside Rosal'in's. “Your imperfections are an asset, not a weakness. They will help you discover who you really are. But your perfectionism will only enslave your abilities to a conformism that has no place in our field.”   
  
Rosal'in couldn’t tell when her attention was diverted from the speech of the distinguished professor to focus on the folds of her long camel skirt, which she began to smooth with discreet but palpable nervousness. She was a perfectionist. Too much of a perfectionist. It took her hours, even days, to make up her mind to paint. And when she wasn’t satisfied with the fruits of her efforts, she threw them away without batting an eyelid. This behaviour wasn't limited to painting, it extended to all areas of her life. She was uncompromising with herself, merciless. She had to be beyond reproach, flawless. The pressure she put on herself was such that she repeatedly had to take several consecutive days off to allow her body and mind to recover. She seemed unconsciously to be punishing herself for a fault of which she was unaware.   
  
Solas' deep voice soon pulled her out of her mental peregrinations, summoning her to focus again on what had brought her to this workshop. As she put one of her hair curls back behind her ear, she took a deep breath and looked up at the artist, who was now half seated on a high wooden stool in front of her.   
  
“For this first session, I will simply ask you to paint what you want, so that I can familiarize myself with each person's working method.”   
  
What she desired? The historian hid her upset pout behind her canvas. Improvisation wasn’t her forte. Thoughtful, she brushed with her fingertips the brushes at her disposal.   
  
A chuckle broke the heavy silence that had just taken over the place, arousing the curiosity of the dalish woman. Her emerald eyes abandoned the immaculate canvas in favor of her mentor.   
“Don't think too much, draw the first thing that gets your interest.” Solas crossed his arms and gauged their haggard expressions with an amused look.   
  
As he took his place on the rustic stool, Rosal'in began to study his hands with particular attention. They were both large and wide, delicate and skillful. The finesse with which he moved them betrayed a natural dexterity, typical of a virtuoso painter. His long fingers gently followed the shape of his biceps, drawing the curves of his muscles through the fine fabric of his green sweater. The position he had adopted highlighted his imposing stature, reinforcing the aura of authority that hovered around him. Although he didn't claim to be a teacher, he looked and behaved like one.   
  
Rosal'in grabbed her pencil and set to work on her sketch. The main subject was a man of high stature, depicted from behind, with his hands behind his back. In the background were several seated figures facing him. Although at first it was only a simple representation of her surrounding reality, the details she gradually incorporated into her sketch changed the interpretation that could be made of it. The characters were dressed in orlesian university clothes from the Dragon Age. While the protagonist wore a teacher's gown, the extras wore student dresses. The scene took place in an amphitheatre similar to the Bram Kenric amphitheatre of the University of Val Royeaux, where hundreds of students flocked every day to perfect their knowledge of historical sciences. Soon, it would no longer be as a student that the young woman would go there, but as a teacher. A shiver of anguish ran down her spine at the thought. Unconsciously, she put her glasses back on in a gesture that betrayed her nervousness and then detached her gaze from her work to fall face to face with a stool that was now empty.   
  
Solas skillfully criss-crossed the row of easels arranged in an arc around his observation post, meticulously studying the paintings of his new disciples. He stopped for a few moments in front of one of them and then pointed a specific detail with his index finger. Rosal'in was too far away to perceive even a scrap of the conversation that was taking place. Her gaze slowly slid from the curve of his arm to the protruding angle of his cheekbones, lingering for a brief but delicious moment on his chiseled jaw. His fleshy lips stretched into an approving smile, subtly accentuating some of the withering of time at the corners of his eyelids.   
  
As he carefully observed the various techniques used, his gaze wandered towards the young historian. Captivated by the meticulous study she was now making of his face, she didn't immediately realize that a pair of azure blue eyes were silently watching her. She had time to notice that they enhanced a hooded gaze of avant-garde charm before she became aware of the nature of the object on which they were focused. As soon as she realized this, Rosal'in looked away and pretended to give her sketch the final details it needed. "What an idiot! "she thought as she nervously put her glasses back on, even though they hadn't moved an inch since her arrival.   
  
Somehow, she tried to restore her self-control, cursing inwardly the awkward behaviour she had displayed since her arrival. The old orlesian parquet floor began to creak again under the weight of discreet footsteps which, to her great dismay, seemed to be heading towards her this time. The squeaking ceased once their author took his seat beside her, the latter carefully examining the composition that was now facing him. He leaned towards the painting, reducing the distance between his pelvis and the young woman's shoulder. The details seemed to hold his attention.   
  
“Your precision is remarkable, I suppose you're a history lover.”   
  
The irony of his assumption brought a slight smile to Rosal'in's red lips. She was about to answer him when he traced with the tip of his index finger one of the many tapestries that adorned the amphitheatre.   
  
“That tapestry... Is that the Bram Kenric amphitheatre?” He asked, diverting his attention from the painting to look at Rosal'in.   
  
"Yes." She replied, a hint of hesitation in her voice. "It seems to me that this tapestry predates the Dragon Age, which would justify its presence, but I'm not sure..." Unconsciously, she looked away again and frowned, biting her lower lip lightly as she used to do when she probed her memory in search of specific information.   
  
“It is. More precisely, it dates from the year 5:30 of the Exalted Age, shortly after the end of the Fourth Blight.” said Solas, with a nostalgic smile on his lips. “It is marvelous.”   
  
Upon hearing his response, Rosal'in re-established the eye contact she had unconsciously broken and then nodded, pleasantly surprised. She didn't expect his knowledge of the Chantry art to be so precise.   
  
“Anyway, it's always nice to see yourself on the sketches of a promising artist.” An enigmatic glow shone in his eyes as he silently gauged her.   
  
Rosal'in remained speechless for a time that seemed to elude her. Her sense of time, as well as her ability to interact with her environment had just been taken away from her. She didn't know how long she was stunned, torn between the most exquisite euphoria and the most lymphatic apathy. Perhaps it had been a few moments, a few minutes or an hour. But what she was sure of was that when she came to her senses, the class had just come to an end.   
  
Solas stood in the doorway and greeted his students one by one as they left the workshop. In a hurry, Rosal'in got up and began to put on her coat and scarf. The rain was hitting the large bay window next to her easel, revealing a stormy sky. She was going to have to call a taxi if she wanted to arrive on time for her meeting with Abelas, her thesis director.   
  
As she walked towards the exit, she grabbed her purse and hurriedly took out her phone, dropping her university card in the process. She barely had time to bend down when she saw Solas bending over to pick it up. As soon as the task was completed, he straightened up and handed it to her. A somewhat amused expression had taken hold of his features.   
  
“I believe this belongs to you.”   
  
“Thank you.” The historian took it gently and put it in her wallet, cheeks pink with embarrassment.   
  
As she was about to cross the threshold of the door, she stopped at the height of her new professor and allowed herself to contemplate one last time the celestial carnation that enhanced his gentle gaze, the ultimate adornment of an atypical beauty that aroused her curiosity and interest.  
  
“Goodbye, Professor Wolfe.” She, in turn, gave him a small, amused smile.   
  
“Goodbye, Dr. Lavellan.”   
  
Her amused little smile suddenly disappeared, soon replaced by a light laugh. She put back a few fleeting curls behind her ears before giving him a shy glance. Solas was still standing in the doorway, his arms folded. His smiling lips were slightly ajar, his eyes wrinkled. He was definitely delighted with the situation.   
  
Suddenly, the stern face of her former professor came back to her mind. Rosal'in immediately went down the corridor leading to the exit and opened the massive wrought-iron door. As she rushed into the first taxi she could find, she didn't know that her meeting wouldn't be fruitful at all. Her thoughts would be occupied by a completely different professor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make a chapter from the point of view of Solas to bring some precisions before the story of our two lovebirds begins. I hope you like it~

The painter was startled when a thunderous, muffled roar broke the monastic silence in which the old Orlesian building had been immersed since the departure of his new disciples. He took a quick glance at the raging sky which had just been split by lightning a short while before putting on his jacket and making his way out. Before going out, he lingered for a last moment on the trestles in front of him. In spite of his renunciation of the profession of art history teacher, these few classes that he gave every two years for four months allowed him to return to his first vocation, the one he had given up for love of the domain.   
  
He sometimes regretted his decision when he realized that the younger generations of elves were unaware of their glorious history, assimilating, in spite of themselves, human morals and customs, both contemporary and past. The few Dalish clans that seemed to resist this phenomenon common to the other races of the Thedas world were not enough to promote Elven culture. Needless to say, once in their hands, this culture had become insipid and laughable. What they brandished as the true heritage of Elvhenan's ancestral times was a pale imitation of reality. Their chauvinism exasperated the 40-year-old elf, who, after several years of struggling to teach the clans the true knowledge of the elders, had finally given up on their stubbornness. He rather preferred to converse with an Orlesian imbued with the so-called exploits of his fellows than with a Dalish convinced that he possessed the Word of the Elven Pantheon.  
  
After taking care to turn off the lights, he closed the door and went to the entrance hall where the concierge, a affable looking man in his sixties, watered the lush tropical plants that gave the cramped space an exotic charm.   
  
“Maker’s breath, what a storm.” The old man left his plants for a brief moment to give Solas a polite smile. “Drive carefully, Mr. Wolfe.” 

“I'll see to it. I wish you a pleasant evening, Mr. Beauvais.”   
  
When Solas in his turn crossed the threshold of the porch, his watch indicated that 5:20 p.m. had passed. The evening before, he had told Felassan that he would set off as soon as his class was over, and that he would therefore arrive around 6 p.m. for the planned dinner.   
  
It was under a torrent of icy rain that he hurried to his car. Although he would have parked it only a few metres from the property, the distance separating him from his vehicle was enough to make his clothes wet. Once inside, he took off his jacket and put it on the passenger seat before wiping his face and turning on the ignition. He opened his glove compartment to look for a black leather case from which he took out a thin pair of glasses which he immediately placed on his nose.   
  
As he entered the traffic lane, his attention was caught by a familiar silhouette hurriedly entering a taxi. Unconsciously, the corners of his lips rose as he recalled the brief exchanges he had had with his new student over the past two hours. Had she deliberately omitted to mention that she was more than just a history buff? He now had a better understanding of her scholarly precision. The works that she had attached to her application file took on their full meaning. In view of the marked presence of Elven artistic codes and themes, he expected her to be one of his fellows. Nevertheless, to learn that she was a doctoral student had come as a surprise. She seemed to him very young and terribly candid. Her propensity to blush unexpectedly was particularly adorable.   
  
Solas' hands tensed slightly on the steering wheel as he took a corner. Had he been younger, he wouldn't have been indifferent to the ingenuous charm she exuded. Well, he wasn't indifferent to it, despite his 40 years of age. It was more a question of morals than of physical attraction. She was undoubtedly an accomplished young woman, both brilliant and ravishing, whose spirit, as well as her looks, gave her a certain power of seduction. Alas, he was far too old, grim, and fatalistic to see himself among her suitors.   
  
Once again, violent flashes followed one another at irregular intervals, illuminating a stormy sky as black as night. Violent waves crashed against the coastal cliffs along the side of the road Solas was on. The Waking Sea was particularly turbulent tonight. The painter watched it at length, captivated by the chaotic beauty of its performance. To his great regret, the small woods that surrounded the steep coasts of Val Royeaux soon cut short the aquatic phantasmagoria that was unfolding before his eyes. His friend's home was nearby.   
  
Almost two years ago Felassan bought an old ruined manor house that nobody wanted to look after anymore. Its owners, two brothers from the golden youth of Orlaïs, had given it to him for a laughable sum because of the advanced state of deterioration of the building and its geographical position. It was lost in the middle of a small isolated rural wood, situated on the edge of the Orlesian countryside. If this situation of retrenchment was a hindrance to the two young men's social life, for the almost forty-year-old neurosurgeon raised on the edge of the Arlathan forest, this characteristic was an undeniable godsend. It had taken more than a year and a half for the elf craftsmen hired by the latter to transform the old Orlesian mansion into a modern elven dwelling worthy of the name.   
  
It was with nostalgia that Solas admired the small narrow path strewn with century-old trees that served as a road. He and Felassan had been born in the same small village and had spent most of their youth together living a reckless life. As adults, their respective career choices had made them quickly lose track of each other. While the future doctor had moved to the city-state of Kirkwall, the budding artist had left their native village for the capital of the Tevinter imperium to pursue his higher education. The ten years he spent in Minrathous were devoted to his early research, thanks to which he managed to forge a name and a reputation in his first field of expertise, the Fade physics.   
  
Solas' face darkened as he remembered those days. His thesis, although innovative, had been judged by his peers as fanciful and senseless because of the upheaval it induced in the various related fields of research. By questioning the great founding principles of the Fade physics, he had swept away centuries of research, causing an unprecedented outcry within the scientific community. He left for Val Royeaux in the months following the publication of his thesis. His name had been mocked, his work discredited.   
  
It’s in art that he found his redemption, more precisely in his teaching and then in his practice. His reorientation had taken him some time, but he didn't regret it. Painting had fascinated him since his early childhood. Nevertheless, despite his love for it, he remained a scientist. As therapeutic as it was, art had not succeeded in making him forget the contempt with which his work and his own person had been treated. Naive would be the one who would think that his origins had not influenced the verdict of his jury.   
  
Paradoxically, it was this failure that made him the man he is today, an artist recognized and adored by the entire artistic community. This new beginning had also allowed him to be reunited with his old friend. Shortly after his arrival in the capital of Orlaïs, Felassan was transferred to the neurology department of the University Hospital of Val Royeaux. Since then, in spite of their busy schedules, they have met once a month for a hearty dinner.   
  
The distance between the entrance to the small woods and the manor house was relatively short, so that it took the painter only a few minutes to get there. When he reached the automated gate, it opened silently, revealing a sumptuous wild garden with seasonal flowers. After parking at the entrance of the estate, Solas walked down the small natural stone alley leading to the main entrance. Felassan had planted many trees, shrubs, and bushes, so that the facade of the house was almost entirely hidden by their dense foliage. The memory of Arlathan seemed to haunt the doctor.   
  
Sitting on the steps of the porch, a cigarette in hand, Felassan waited patiently for him. Judging by his wet hair, tied in a low ponytail, he had just taken a shower. He took a puff before he noticed the artist's arrival.   
  
“Long day?” Solas joined him on the stoop and sat down beside him with a smile on his face.   
“At least I still have enough energy left to smoke. But holding my cutlery will be a different story...”  
  
Although he was expecting a refusal, he mechanically handed him his cigarette. The time when they smoked together in school was over, but the old habits persisted. Against all odds, Felassan felt a hand grab the cigarette. He watched Solas take a puff in his turn, astonished. “It seems I'm not the only one who's had a long day.”   
  
The painter slowly exhaled his smoke under the watchful eye of his friend. "Not particularly. My class went off without a hitch. I must even confess that I was pleasantly surprised by the performance of one of my new disciples. »   
  
He also mechanically gave his cigarette back to Felassan, who this time hastened to crush it on the step before getting up. A gust of wind violently swept away the few dead leaves that littered the green lawn in the courtyard. "The wind is beginning to pick up, let's go inside. »   
Solas nodded before following him. They both went to the large living room and took their place in the imposing brown aged leather sofa. A fire was burning in the hearth of the fireplace, surmounted by a painting representing the port of Antiva. Felassan sighed at the artist's amused expression, falsely annoyed. “It was Lucrezia's idea. She thinks it goes perfectly with the... curtains.”  
  
They laughed together. 

“It took a year before she agreed to move in with me. I'm willing to make some concessions.” Felassan pretended to study his living room thoroughly. “It's almost like being in one of those Antiva boudoirs!”   
  
A new laughter escaped his lips as Solas falsely examined the room in a reproving manner. “Indeed. We stand among the remnants of your failure.”   
  
“You don't know how persuasive she can be...” Felassan accompanied his reply with an cheeky smile.   
  
“... Must I deduce that she used her charms to achieve her ends and that you couldn't resist her?” Asked the painter as a small mocking chuckle crossed the threshold of his lips.   
  
“Why would I resist?” A teasing gleam danced in the doctor's purple irises. “We'll talk about it again when you have a nymph waiting for you every night in your bed.”   
  
“I'm not opposed to this pleasant idea.” He replied with a touch of ambiguity.   
  
“You seem to forget that your air of humble artist doesn't take with me. I know you better than anyone else. One phone call would be enough to guarantee you a partner for the rest of the evening.” Felassan paused before his friend's silence. His smile had faded. “Why not use your fame instead of moping in your loneliness? Don't think I didn't notice your melancholy when you arrived. You only smoke when you feel remorse.”   
  
The expression on Solas' face became more serious. “I'm past the age of one-night stands, Felassan. Besides, what's so pleasant about buying the affection of a woman with supposed notoriety?”   
  
Felassan was about to answer him when his phone started vibrating. The third and last guest had just sent him a message, which he read without further delay, thus putting an end to the unpleasant turn of the conversation.   
  
“Abelas will be here soon. He had to cut his meeting short because of the storm.” He carelessly ran a hand through his hair before getting up from the couch to go to the kitchen.  
  
A feeling of relief overcomes the artist, releasing the pressure that had built up in his shoulders and which had unconsciously forced him to tighten up. He had no desire to talk about his setbacks, be they professional or romantic. His gaze lingered on the flames dancing in the fireplace. The crackling of the wood brought him back to the time when he lived in a small house in a suburb near Minrathous. It was here that he met his first true love, a young elven woman who shared his passion for the Fade. They met at university and stayed together for several years before the discrediting of his thesis and his name put an end to it. She didn't want her own work to be impacted. At least that's what the letter she left him said. She had left the same way she had arrived. Without a sound, without a word.   
  
When Felassan returned with three glasses and a bottle of wine, he hardly paid any attention.  
  
“Look what I've got for us.” He proudly presented the bottle to him. It was a wine from their home village.   
  
“Did they send it to you? If I'm not mistaken, it's only a small local production, they don't export.” He pointed out, seizing the liquor, pleasantly surprised.   
  
“Indeed. I had the opportunity to bring some back on my last trip.” He put the glasses on the coffee table next to the couch. “Lucrezia was determined to meet my family before accepting my proposal.”   
  
Solas immediately left the bottle of wine to concentrate on what he had just heard.   
  
“So it's serious this time...” He grabbed the corkscrew that Felassan had in his hand and opened the bottle. “How did they react when they realized she was human?”  
  
“Pretty well. To tell you the truth, I didn't expect them to accept it so easily. If you had seen-” 

The doorbell rang before he could finish his sentence, cutting off their conversation again. A mischievous smile appeared on the house master's lips.   
  
“It looks like Abelas comes at just the right time.” He remarked as he walked down the hallway leading to the entrance.   
  
Solas watched him walk away before shifting his attention to the bottle in his hand. Skillfully, he filled the wine glasses placed in front of him one by one. Abelas had been joining some of their meetings from time to time for several years now. The two men had met as part of their respective research into the history of the Elven empire. While the painter had devoted his second thesis to Elven religious iconography, the historian's work dealt with the divine figures of the pantheon. Recent discoveries from the Dragon Age questioned the divine nature of its protagonists. Behind them would hide influential figures of the time when Elvhenan overlooked the world of Thedas with all its political, military and cultural superiority. As their research interests quickly proved to be similar, the two elves decided to work together on these new finds. Thus, emerged from the remains of the lost empire that they cherished so dearly, a sincere and devoted friendship that neither scholar had been able to predict.   
  
When he finally managed to extricate himself from the meanderings of his memories, Felassan was standing in the doorway of the living room, accompanied by a svelte man elegantly dressed with long braided white hair. An amused smile appeared on the newcomer's lips as his gaze wandered across the room.   
  
“I'm not sure about the authenticity of this elven decoration...” He walked towards Solas and shook his hand before taking off his coat and taking a seat in the armchair next to the sofa.   
A mocking chuckle escaped the artist. Accustomed to the teasing of his friends, the doctor sighed and then resigned himself to answering them. Without delay, he reached the place he had left a few minutes earlier, grabbing his glass of wine in the process.   
  
“I hope you like Dalish food because this is what I ordered us.”   
  
Abelas and Solas exchanged a knowing smile.   
  
“As long as they don't cook like they make history...” The historian said, taking a sip of wine. “Though I'm being unfair. Not all Dalish are pretentious idiots with no capacity for thought.”  
  
“Really? I have never yet met a Dalish who would be willing to question what his clan taught him.” It was Solas' turn to dip his lips in his glass, the fruity and pungent taste of the liquor bringing back memories of his youth.   
  
“In that case, maybe I should introduce you to one of my students. A doctoral student whose research is mainly based on the physical and spiritual manifestations of the religious fact in Arlathan at the apogee of the empire.”   
  
Felassan's clear laughter rose, breaking the monotony of their exchange. “A Dalish as an apprentice... In view of your work, her clan must be mad that she chose you as her director.”  
  
“Undoubtedly, but I don't regret accepting her proposal. In spite of her youth and her origins, she is brilliant.” He affirmed with academic confidence.   
  
As Solas was about to back up his words against the Dalish, Rosal'in's face suddenly came back to him. A slight smile appeared on his lips, betraying the sense of happiness that his new apprentice was creating in him. “Speaking of young doctoral students, I was surprised to have one among my new disciples. A doctoral student in history who, like you, works at the University of Val Royeaux. I presume you must know her, if only by name.”   
  
“Wait a minute.” The doctor exclaimed at once. “Isn't she the one you were talking to me about earlier? You were careful not to tell me that the disciple who had impressed you so pleasantly was a woman...”   
  
“Felass-”   
  
“Is she cute? She must be, otherwise you wouldn't have smiled like that when you thought of her...” Felassan had his usual mischievous smile again. “Knowing you, she must surely be one of us...”   
  
A weary sigh betrays the painter's annoyance. “As charming as she is, she's still one of my students. You know very well I don't venture down that path.”   
  
The infatuation that could be read on the elf's face gave way to an upset expression. “And why not? Your classes aren't institutionally supervised like Abelas'. No one would blame you for having an affair with one of your students.”   
  
“He's got a point.” Abelas put his empty glass on the coffee table. “What's her name?”   
  
“Rosal'in Lavellan.” He finally confesses, defeated.   
  
A heavy silence followed the professor's confession.   
  
“...Well, what a coincidence. Seems I don't need to introduce you to my student anymore. She came to you on her own.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Leaning against the railing of his narrow balcony, Solas silently watched the twilight. The cigarette in his hand was almost completely consumed. The heat from the filter was also beginning to tingle in his fingertips. He carelessly crushed his cigarette butt against the railing before returning to his living room.   
  
He'd just gotten home a little while ago. Maybe 30 minutes. Definitely an hour. The tobacco had failed to dispel the spicy notes of the Dalish stew he'd eaten a few hours earlier with his friends. The painter sighed unconsciously as he recalled the events that had followed his confession. Felassan had been teasing him about his new apprentice under the amused eye of his colleague. Despite the pleasant distraction of the scene, Abelas had remained professional and refused to answer the neurosurgeon's many indiscreet questions. Moreover, although Rosal'in was his student, he knew virtually nothing about her. Until now, their discussions had been limited to her research.   
  
He sat on the stool facing his easel and examined at length the sketch he had drawn that morning. Fen'Harel, the elven god of rebellion, stood in the center of the scene, a woman in his arms. Solas had wanted to represent the God in his newly rediscovered mortal form, that of a bald middle-aged elf with noble features. Although it was already suspected that his true appearance was that of several Elvhenan-era elven frescoes, the discovery of new frescoes, this time from the Dragon Age, had confirmed the specialists' hypothesis.   
  
Solas and Abelas had been at the origin of these curious discoveries that turned the already chaotic history of Thedas upside down a little more. In fact, the two protagonists of these frescoes were two legendary figures of elven and chantry mythologies. The first, made infamous by his black legend, was Fen'Harel. The second protagonist was the first inquisitor of the Dragon Age, a Dalish woman who managed to reunite Thedas while the elf rebellion was raging. Legend has it that Fen'Harel, having awoken from his millennial sleep to break the chains of his people, fell in love with the inquisitor. In order for their people to survive and prosper, they were both forced to sacrifice themselves. Before they died, they had promised each other that they would meet again in another life to live out their forbidden love.   
  
Ever since he had discovered it, the myth of Halam'shivanas, transcribed into the common language by the sweet sacrifice of duty, had fascinated the painter. It had been one of the key elements of his second thesis. From the tip of his pencil, Solas sketched the figure of the inquisitor. Since her appearance responded to both Elven and Andrastian iconographic codes, he didn't yet know how he was going to represent her. He didn't want to give life to their legend, but to their love, by dispossessing them of their divine finery.   
  
His gaze left his sketch for a moment to rest on the library located a few metres from his easel. His jaw tensed up when he found among many books his thesis on the Fade physics. He immediately put down the pencil he was holding in his hand and got up to go to his room without further delay. Tonight, he wasn't in the mood to paint.   
  
When he lifted his blankets to go to bed, Felassan's words came back to him. When was the last time he spent a night with a woman? Judging by the jerk that shook his crotch at the mere thought, long enough for him to start worrying about it. But he didn't want a one-night stand. Or at least he didn't want one anymore. He had spent the last few years dating women who admired only his status. None of them had gone beyond his fame as an artist. Once they had given free rein to their carnal impulses, they gradually faded from his life and disappeared forever.   
  
Solas took a deep breath to chase away his intrusive thoughts and then lay down on his side, eyes closed. As he began to doze off, Rosal'in's shy smile appeared to him. If he consented to their union, would she, once their desires were satisfied, stop smiling at him as if he were the only man worthy of her interest in all Thedas? Before succumbing to the call of the Fade, he surprised himself by hoping that she would be different.   


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for taking the time to read, I hope you enjoy it! This is my first fanfiction in a modern Thedas so feel free to give me your opinions, your critics! This is my first translation so I apologize for the mistakes! :)
> 
> /!\ Rosal'in's ex-boyfriend, Fenarel, isn't Fen'Harel. He's an official character from the game, Fenarel Sabrae (Merril's clan) ;)


End file.
